There’s more to me than my long brown, matted waves that hold their curl for a generous day and a half, and there’s more to me than my hooded aquamarine eyes shielded by black-framed glasses. 

Vibrations from notifications, followed by messages that stab my head repeatedly until a signature sting shoots through my limbs. Feeling the notification’s wrath tingle my fingertips, all I can really do is look, for the rest of my limbs are still and unable to move. 

Vile and venomous without intent, the cruel and connote crossover of our worlds causes my eyes to gleam a true aquamarine from tears. The trail of emotions, caused by the notification, tracks down my cheekbones and into my waves. 

Why me? What did I do to deserve this consuming feeling? Was it something I did?

So many nights wasted worrying about the same crude remarks. Old and irrelevant, yet their toxic touch takes control of my brain and body. The words and feelings conveyed through the texts are like tattoos I unknowingly paid for. Forever, it will be with me, and if I try to remove it, only the true colors will fade, but the general shape will remain. 

I can try and cover the invasive tattoo with makeup and clothing, but it’s still there; it’ll always be there. 

Because of the texts–tattoos–I’ve learned to stop caring what others have to say. I’m tired. I’m burnt out. I’m exhausted from hearing others complain about my problems and traits that, in their darkest of dreams, they couldn’t remotely fathom.

I’m exhausted from hearing careless remarks about my cystic acne and its bright purple or red color. It’s uncomfortable, it’s uncontrollable, and it’s ugly; even I can admit that. It can only be managed with medications and many treatments.

I’m exhausted from hearing jokes about my nose and how much it resembles an eagle’s beak. It’s the loudest animal in the room sticking out in the middle of my face. I love it, though. My dad and my brother both have it. My family, dead and alive, all have had to look at the beauty a Polish nose holds. 

“Bro, Syd, is your mom a bird or something because why is that nose huge?”

I wish I still had the screenshot, but sadly, it’s nowhere in my photo gallery. 

I’m exhausted from hearing everything and anything negative about me. Oh, how it makes me so sick. I’ve grown from them, though. Not in a cliché type-of way, but in a way that has made me stronger rather than completely overlooking my problems. 

I like my intense jawline and my hooked nose. I like my chocolate-colored hair, even if it fails to curl sometimes. I like my face, my body, and myself. 

I wish people wouldn’t leave cruel tattoos on people who struggled for so long to see their beauty.